The Child Wife

“Well, in the first place, I was with Blanche in the covers, the day before yesterday. It was when we all went pheasant-shooting. We separated; she going home, and I to continue the sport. I had got out of sight, as he supposed, when this Mr Maynard popped out from behind a holly copse, and joined her. I’m positive he was there waiting for the opportunity. He gave up his shooting, and accompanied her home; talking all the way, with as much familiarity as if he had been her brother?”

“He has the right, Frank Scudamore. He saved my child’s life.”

“But that don’t give him the right to say the things he said to her.”

Sir George started.

“What things?”

“Well, a good many. I don’t mean in the covers. What passed between them there, of course, I couldn’t hear. I was too far off. It was last night, while they were dancing, I heard them.”

“And what did you hear?”

“They were talking about this new book Mr Maynard has written. My cousin said she was so anxious to read it she would not be able to sleep that night. In reply, he expressed a hope she would feel the same way the night after reading it. Uncle, is that the sort of speech for a stranger to address to Blanche, or for her to listen to?”

The question was superfluous; and Scudamore saw it, by the abrupt manner in which the spectacles were jerked from Sir George’s nose.

“You heard all that, did you?” he asked, almost mechanically.

“Every word of it.”

“Between my daughter and Captain Maynard?”

“I have said so, uncle.”

“Then say it to no one else. Keep it to yourself, Frank, till I speak to you again. Go now! I’ve Government business to attend to, that requires all my time. Go?”

The nephew, thus authoritatively dismissed, retired from the library.

As soon as he was outside the door, the baronet sprang up out of his chair; and striding excitedly around the room, exclaimed to himself:

“This comes of showing kindness to a republican – a traitor to his Queen!”

Chapter Fifty One.

Under the Deodara

The birthday of Blanche Vernon did not terminate the festivities at her father’s house.

On the second day after, there was a dinner-party of like splendid appointment, succeeded by dancing.

It was the season of English rural enjoyment, when crops had been garnered, and rents paid; when the farmer rests from his toil, and the squire luxuriates in his sports.

Again in Vernon Hall were noble guests assembled; and again the inspiring strains of harp and violin told time to the fantastic gliding of feet.

And again Maynard danced with the baronet’s daughter.

She was young to take part in such entertainments. But it was her father’s house, and she was an only daughter – hence almost necessitated at such early age to play mistress of the mansion.

True to her promise, she had read the romance, and declared her opinion of it to the anxious author.

She liked it, though not enthusiastically. She did not say this. Only from her manner could Maynard tell there was a qualification. Something in the book seemed not to have satisfied her. He could not conjecture what it was. He was too disappointed to press for an explanation.

Once more they were dancing together, this time in a valse. Country-bred as she was, she waltzed like a coryphée. She had taken lessons from a Creole teacher, while resident on the other side of the Atlantic.

Maynard was himself no mean dancer, and she was just the sort of partner to delight him.

Without thought of harm, in the abandon of girlish innocence, she rested her cheek upon his shoulder, and went spinning round with him – in each whirl weaving closer the spell upon his heart. And without thought of being observed.

But she was, at every turn, all through the room, both she and he. Dowagers, seated along the sides, ogled them through their eye-glasses, shook their false curls, and made muttered remarks. Young ladies, two seasons out, looked envious – Lady Mary contemptuous, almost scowling.

“The gilded youth” did not like it; least of all Scudamore, who strode through the room sulky and savage, or stood watching the sweep of his cousin’s skirt, as though he could have torn the dress from her back!

It was no relief to him when the valse came to an end.

On the contrary, it but increased his torture; since the couple he was so jealously observing, walked off, arm-in-arm, through the conservatory, and out into the grounds.

There was nothing strange in their doing so. The night was warm, and the doors both of conservatory and drawing-room set wide open. They were but following a fashion. Several other couples had done the same.

Whatever may be said of England’s aristocracy, they have not yet reached that point of corruption, to make appearances suspicious. They may still point with pride to one of the noblest of their national mottoes: – “Honi soit qui mal y pense.”

It is true they are in danger of forsaking it; under that baleful French influence, felt from the other side of the Channel, and now extending to the uttermost ends of the earth – even across the Atlantic.

But it is not gone yet; and a guest admitted into the house of an English gentleman is not presupposed to be an adventurer, stranger though he be. His strolling out through the grounds, with a young lady for sole companion, even upon a starless night, is not considered outré– certainly not a thing for scandal.

Sir George Vernon’s guest, with Sir George’s daughter on his arm, was not thinking of scandal, as they threaded the mazes of the shrubbery that grew contiguous to the dwelling. No more, as they stopped under the shadow of gigantic deodara, whose broad, evergreen fronds extended far over the carefully kept turf.

There was neither moon nor stars in the sky; no light save that dimly reflected through the glass panelling of the conservatory.

They were alone, or appeared so – secure from being either observed or overheard, as if standing amidst the depths of some primeval forest, or the centre of an unpeopled desert. If there were others near, they were not seen; if speaking, it must have been in whispers.

Perhaps this feeling of security gave a tone to their conversation. At all events, it was carried on with a freedom from restraint, hitherto unused between them.

“You have travelled a great deal?” said the young girl, as the two came to a stand under the deodara.

“Not much more than yourself Miss Vernon. You have been a great traveller, if I mistake not?”

“I! oh, no! I’ve only been to one of the West India islands, where papa was Governor. Then to New York, on our way home. Since to some of the capital cities of Europe. That’s all.”

“A very fair itinerary for one of your age.”

“But you have visited many strange lands, and passed through strange scenes – scenes of danger, as I’ve been told.”

“Who told you that?”

“I’ve read it. I’m not so young as to be denied reading the newspapers. They’ve spoken of you, and your deeds. Even had we never met, I should have known your name.”

And had they never met, Maynard would not have had such happiness as was his at that moment. This was his reflection.